The First Day of the End of Everything
by shallowz
Summary: The first days and weeks after the fire that changed everything for the Winchesters. Part of the First Series. Based on John’s journal entries.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The First Day of the End of Everything (1/3)

Characters: John, Dean, Sam

Warnings/spoilers: John's journal, possibly Home. No doubt, very AU after the graphic novel is released.

Disclaimer: Supernatural is not ours. No profit being made … etc.

Summary: The first days and weeks after the fire that changed everything for the Winchesters. Based on John's journal entries found at Super-Wiki, The Journal (diary entries).

**Part One**

**November 3, 1983**

Breathing was an effort.

John found himself looking down at his chest to see it rising and falling. The movement wasn't as smooth as it should be, but at least he wasn't hyperventilating. He was just missing the part where breathing felt like it was doing him any good.

He felt like his heart shouldn't be beating either, but here it was threatening to break out of his chest.

What was he supposed to do now?

Indecisiveness was not a usual state for him.

But then again, neither was the concept of being without Mary, or understanding what took Mary, or why this happened in their baby's nursery.

He had spoken to a detective, who had introduced himself, but John couldn't think of his name now. The only thing he recalled was the food stain on the man's tie. At the time, his concentration was primarily on keeping Dean and Sam close.

The paramedics had checked them out, and the detective had wanted to speak with him while his boys were being looked after by strangers, but John wouldn't have any of it. One look at Dean's confused, frightened face and hearing Sam's inconsolable crying was the only thing that had been important to John amid the chaos that had once been their home. Mary would have wanted it that way, and would have kicked his ass six ways to Sunday if he had allowed anything different.

_Wanted. Would have. _That just sounded so wrong.

Now hours later, the Winchesters were messily settled in the Guenthers' guest room. What was once a simple routine of checking on his kids at night now held an edge of panic. An exhausted, grief-stricken John guarded his sleeping boys. Sleeping only because their little bodies couldn't take any more.

Dean was terrified that something was coming for them, and John couldn't even truthfully tell him he was wrong, that he was imagining things, that it's just a bad dream, and go back to sleep, Dean.

_Something_ had murdered Mary. How did he keep them safe from _some thing_?

Now he was hyperventilating.

**November 6, 1983**

Well meaning people told John the funeral would give him _closure_. Help him move on.

As he stared down at the perfectly rectangular hole, John questioned the wisdom of having let others take care of the details of Mary's funeral. Not that he was functioning well enough to even plan such a thing, but he had to wonder what type of closure was to be had when they were lowering an empty coffin into the ground.

Sitting in a chair, holding both Dean and Sam in his lap, John only heard the faint mumbles of a pastor going on in a faith he didn't believe in. Sam was dozing, having had only a restless sleep the night before. Dean clung to him, and kept his face pressed firmly into the lapel of John's suit jacket. Neither Sam nor Dean wanted anyone else to touch them. Dean actually flinched when others reached for him, and John had to fight the urge to do the same when those consoling gestures came his way.

John just didn't understand how they came to be here, and didn't know what to do. He couldn't accept that his wife was gone.

So much of what was Mary had burned along with her. He felt as if the fire had not only taken Mary away from them, but also everything that provided a memory of her.

And yet, he only had to look down at their two boys to know that what reminded him most of Mary was still with him.

**November 13, 1983**

The house fire, and what he remembered, didn't make sense.

John stood on the sidewalk in front of what was left of their home, reliving that night over and over again. Smelling the smoke, still permeating the area, did nothing to stop the endless loop in his mind.

He missed the smell of a clean yard, the scent of Mary and home. It was all so different now that he couldn't completely wrap his mind around it.

This ruined shell didn't seem like it could possibly be the same place that he had eagerly returned to after a day of working.

Dean would run out of the house to hurl himself into John's arms, Mary welcomed him home like he had been gone for days instead of hours, and Sammy would grin at John like he was the best thing ever.

Mary was gone, their home was gone, his boys were not the same, and John knew he had changed in ways that couldn't possibly be good.

He and the boys would never live here again. Sam would never know this place as home. Dean would only have the memories, and maybe not even those in the years to come.

And the ache of loss threatened to bring him to his knees

**November 17, 1983**

Mike and Kate had taken the remaining Winchesters into their home, and John truly appreciated it. He just had to keep reminding himself of that. _Frequently_.

He wasn't sure what prompted him into telling Mike what he had seen, but in hindsight, it could only be considered a stupid idea.

"John, you're stressed," Mike bluntly. "You're looking for something that isn't there. Mary died due to a terrible accident."

"She was on the _ceiling_."

"John, that's not possible." Mike stated. "You have to snap out of this. Think of your boys."

And Kate, well that was even better.

"John, everyone needs help now and then. You've gone through a very traumatic experience. I know a wonderful psychiatrist downtown. Maybe talking to someone who isn't so close to the situation would help you."

John didn't think telling a shrink what he saw that night would help at all. He'd end up doped to the gills and drooling. They'd take his boys away. And just that thought had him shaking so hard that he had hide in the bathroom until he could get it under control.

Damn it, he had been a marine. He had gone through some rough times, and those times had left a mark. Mary had softened those edges.

This experience brought him lower than anything he had gone through in the service. He had seen others who were strong break or crack under the pressure. Saw them do some insane things that seemed perfectly reasonable to them at the time.

Was that what he was doing? Going crazy and just couldn't tell?

**November 26, 1983**

The police had listened, hadn't believed, and thought him the grief-stricken husband.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, but we don't have any new information for you," stated the detective as he gestured for John to take a seat by his desk.

They had been introduced, but John couldn't recall his name. The coffee spill on the detective's tie at least was enough to tell him he had the same guy from the night of the fire.

"Do you know if it was deliberately set?" John asked, squeezing the words out through clenched teeth.

"The investigation is ongoing, but we have nothing conclusive at the moment." Detective what's-his-name provided a canned response as he took a seat. "Since you're here, Mr. Winchester, could I ask you a few questions?"

Sighing, John ran an agitated hand over his hair, "sure, go ahead."

"How were things with you and your wife?"

"What is this about? _Things_ were great. I've told you all this before."

"What about with your sons? Any problems?"

John gripped the chair before he bodily threw himself over the detective's desk.

"Sam is six-months-old. He's not into tearing up the house. He's a good baby. Dean is four and his biggest concern was practicing T-Ball. Hardly a problem," John bit out.

"Just making sure we've covered everything, Mr. Winchester."

"In other words, you have nothing," John muttered as he stood and left the office without looking back.

Man couldn't eat or drink without spilling on his tie, and he was going to solve Mary's murder?

**November 30, 1983**

It wasn't only dreams that kept John from sleeping. Any little noise woke him, and he couldn't take the chance that it meant nothing. John thought after a few weeks he would be familiar with the house and its sounds, but he couldn't settle, couldn't trust it.

He wondered, and doubted, if he ever would settle down in another home.

Then again, it was easier to blame strange noises for his lack of sleep rather than dwell on the pain and guilt of letting Mary die.

As he did every night, he made a circuit of the house to make sure everything was secure. He inspected every single lock, looked out every window, and tested the doors. First and last stop was checking on his boys.

Inevitably this led him back to thinking how they ended up here. It kept going around and around in his head. Frustrated and weary, he pulled out his journal to see if writing it down would help.

**December 3, 1983**

Thank you, Mike and Kate, for taking us into your home, but I really hate this place, John thought harshly.

It's just the wind, Mike said. Didn't sound like wind. Sounded like … whispering. A continuous low murmur, barely heard, just _there_.

And a sense of something watching, waiting.

It was enough to cause John to stand watch and roam the house throughout the night.

Sammy had cried earlier, missing his mom, and no longer the baby that used to fall asleep quietly and easily. Unlike Dean at that age who had required numerous nighttime rides in the Impala to ease him to slumber.

After Dean crawled in the crib with Sam, John figured his oldest was Sammy's version of the Impala. Dean had curled himself around his brother, and Sam had settled. Dean was also sleeping better, but not in that loose-limbed little boy sprawl. He held his body in a tight instinctual position to protect himself and Sam.

John wondered what his boy sensed.

Dean wasn't talking. He hadn't said much of anything since that moment in the hallway when John had handed him his baby brother, and told him to get out of the house. Dean had done it too. He took care of Sammy, and was still taking care of Sammy.

Earlier in the day, he had tried to engage Dean in playing some ball. Get him to talk about little stuff; anything to hear his little boy again. But the sight of Dean's anxious looks to the house, specifically where John knew Sam was napping, scratched that idea.

Dean was too young to be so careworn. John missed the active little boy who organized his toolbox, day dreamed about driving the Impala, and giggled whenever Sammy made a funny face.

But then none of the remaining Winchesters were doing any of the things they had done just a few weeks ago, and John grieved when he couldn't see them ever being safe or normal again.

**End Part One**


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Supernatural is not ours. No profit being made … etc.

**Part Two**

**December 7, 1983**

John had held law enforcement in certain regard before he actually had to _deal_ with them.

Detective Spills-On-His-Tie was single-handedly changing his opinion. It was quickly becoming apparent that the police had no clue what happened to his wife. They didn't believe his initial account of the fire, and thought him too emotional and distraught to provide a coherent statement.

And he was fairly certain it was ketchup on the tie this time. What the hell kind of table manners did this guy have?

Now he was starting to think that the police wouldn't find the answers. Not if they kept asking him the same questions over and over. John also knew the quickest way to lose his sons was to repeat his initial statement.

The detective finally left, and John almost, but not quite, slammed the detective's backside with the door. Needing a moment, he rested his forehead against the doorframe until he felt the familiar prickle of being watched.

He turned to find Dean peeking around the living room doorway. It broke John's heart every time he saw the lost, worried look in his little boy's eyes. Words weren't working with Dean and hadn't worked for the past month. Dean would talk when he was ready, and John wasn't pushing him. Above all, he needed to know his daddy was sticking around, and John could give him that.

Bending down, John held out his arms in a silent invitation that Dean readily moved into. Scooping him up, John rose and did the next best thing by saying, "Let's go see Sammy."

As long as John and Sammy were within Dean's sight, he relaxed. John took whatever little things he could, and seeing his four-year-old year stand down was one of them.

It wasn't much later that he put his boys to bed and watched over them until both eased into sleep.

Then for the first time since the night they lost Mary, John settled down with a bottle of whiskey that he wouldn't remember drinking in its entirety.

**December 8, 1983**

Coffee. _Please_.

Stumbling his way to the kitchen, John wasn't the least bit prepared to talk with Mike.

"John, you can't keep going like this," was the first thing that was out of Mike's mouth. Followed closely with, "Your boys need you. You need to get yourself together."

"Mike, can we do this later?" The idea of talking was too painful. In all ways.

That request was either brushed off or completely ignored. Mike could be obstinate when he wanted something to go his way.

"John, it's been over a month since Mary died. You need to - "

"Am I on a timeline?" John asked bluntly.

"I know this isn't easy for you or the boys. You're welcome to stay with Kate and me as long as you need," Mike offered. "It's going to take awhile to sort things out with your house. Returning to work would be a start in getting things back to normal."

So that's what this was leading up to. John didn't think changing the oil in someone else's car was going to help.

Or make things _normal_.

"Work is piling up. Customers are asking for you." Mike continued. "You've called in more than you've been there."

"Do you understand how hard it is to leave Dean and Sam right now?" John nearly snarled with frustration and worry.

"Kate and I will help you with the boys. You know we adore them, but you have to think about your future."

Future? What could Mike possibly understand about the future for John and his sons? It was no accident that something took Mary.

Were his sons next?

"It's all yours, Mike," John cutting in. The concept had been at the back of his mind, but with Mike pushing it became reality.

That stopped Mike briefly, then he came back with, "You're telling me that you're gonna give up your life's work? You can't be serious."

"Watch me," John stated, and left the room. A nine-to-five job would take him away from Dean and Sam, and that wasn't acceptable.

Hangover or not, things were getting clearer.

What good was the garage when Mary was gone and not understanding what took her? Fires don't just start in the ceilings. There had to be answers, and the police weren't finding them, so he would.

It was easy enough to tell Kate that he had to meet with the insurance agent about the house. John utilized his time researching old fires, learning his way around the local library, and going to his neighbors' houses. There wasn't much to find. People he once knew in a friendly way were reluctant to talk with him.

Did people believe he was capable of killing Mary?

**December 11, 1983**

John stared down at the pitiful assortment of things the firemen had salvaged from the house. A few photos, a couple of toys, and an antique revolver. Not a powerful weapon, but one he planned on keeping close after last night.

John had been dreaming of Mary, particularly of that little shimmy she would do to get out of her clothes. She knew what it did to him. So vivid, so beautiful, and she was laughing. Laughing as he reached for her. John wanted to touch, to feel, and almost did when the dream shifted to blood, fire, and Mary on the ceiling.

He had woken up breathing hard and in a sweat, but the fire was gone. The feeling of being watched remained.

**December 13, 1983**

"Electrical short?" Disbelief clear in his tone. "After all this time that's all you have?"

Detective Whatever came back, "We've determined that the flashpoint started in the ceiling, which isn't common. The fire department usually sees that type of fire starting in the walls."

"What proof do you have?" John pushed.

"With the severity of the fire, there is no hard evidence. That's to be expected."

_Expected?_

John found himself gripping the phone hard. It was making protesting noises.

"Mr. Winchester, there is no evidence of foul play."

"Is that your subtle way of telling me that I'm no longer a suspect in my wife's death?" John asked bluntly.

"Mr. Winchester, with a fatality like this we have to investigate every avenue." The man hadn't mastered eating without spilling, but he had condescension down to an art form.

"What about my wife's … remains?" He forced the question out even as his chest constricted.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, the fire left nothing, no DNA, blood, or fingerprints. There is no evidence of anyone else having been in your house."

John found himself sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. "So you're telling me that my house had an electrical short in the ceiling, which inexplicitly burned so hot that there is no evidence left, or anything left of my wife?"

"Yes, Mr. Winchester." He stated as if this was the most rational of explanations. _Rational._

John tuned him out for a moment. Vaguely hearing things about flashpoints and burn marks, and came back around to hear, "It's a tragic accident. Please know that you have the condolences of the Lawrence Police Department."

John hung up the phone.

_**December 14, 1983**_

John startled awake, breath caught in his throat, chilled perspiration sliding uncomfortably down his back. The feeling of something watching so strong that his rusty sixth sense kept him still, leaving only his eyes to search the darkness.

As he felt the specter fade, John accepted that he had to stop ignoring what he hadn't believed in. Glancing at the clock, he found he had only been asleep for a few minutes. Whatever this thing was, it wanted to keep him exhausted and dull-witted. However, former training was kicking in and pushing him past the weariness. There was an odd comfort in that. John had a hunch that he'd need all those old skills.

Trusting that the presence was indeed gone for now, John checked the boys to see if they were still asleep before heading to the kitchen for a drink of water.

That last useless conversation with the detective only confirmed John's belief that this wasn't a job for the police. What did they know about this?

What did _he_ know about this?

There wasn't a logical explanation for a person being pinned to the ceiling and gutted.

Taking a glass from the cupboard and filling it from the tap, John drank and stared out the kitchen window into a darkness that held no comfort.

John would protect his boys and find the thing that killed Mary. It had been in Sammy's room, and he wouldn't take the chance that this had been a random act.

There were the books on fires, including one on unnatural fires. Fantastical stuff, except John remembered the purposeful nature of the fire. It had surrounded Mary, and when he had attempted to reach his wife, the fire had intentionally targeted him. That wasn't imagination and he was coming to accept that.

Crazy, but rational explanations weren't cutting it any longer. Tomorrow he would continue researching the unexplainable.

Sammy's plaintive wail shook him out of his thoughts. Heart thumping, he rushed back to their bedroom to find Dean sitting up in the crib adeptly checking Sam's diaper and making shushing noises.

Relieved, John approached the crib, whispering, "Is he wet, bud?

Dean looked up and nodded, scrunching up his face as he did so.

"More than wet," John stated. Dean may not say the words, but he could get the point across. Picking up Dean first and setting him on the floor, John turned back to the fussing Sam and caught a whiff of him. "Definitely more than wet, little guy."

Dean could and would change a wet diaper if needed, but toxic ones had him backing off with a horrified look. The look John was getting now. He couldn't help his smile and went about changing the offensive diaper while Dean moved to keep Sammy occupied.

Once Sam's discomfort was taken care of, he settled back to being the quiet solemn baby with an equally solemn brother by his side. God, John missed his smiling kids, and tonight he wanted them close while they slept. Cuddling Sam in the crook of his arm, John untangled the covers on his bed.

"Climb on in," he encouraged Dean, who scooted in under the blankets. John settled Sam close to his brother and tucked in beside them. Leaving the bedside light on, he reached for the book on the nightstand, and he wrapped his other arm around his sons.

It wasn't long before Sam's little body was completely relaxed and so very quietly asleep. Dean stayed awake a little longer watching as John turned the pages and continued with his research. Eventually, John felt Dean uncoil a little. Slowly, his eyes started to droop, and his breathing changed to the regularity of slumber.

For a time, John watched his sons sleep. Looking at them only made him more determined to find out what had happened, if only to prevent it from happening again.

He didn't have the answers yet, but he now had the questions.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Supernatural is not ours. No profit being made … etc.

**Part Three**

**December 17, 1983**

Psychics?

He was going to _psychics_. No small wonder Mike thought John was going crazy. Not that John was advertising the fact. It was becoming clear to him that people who once trusted and believed in him treated him differently these days.

Even he had to admit that he was desperate if he kept checking psychics out after the first joker. El Divino almost took his own "You're going away on a long trip" the hard way.

Standing on the doorstep of Missouri Mosely's house, his fourth visit to a psychic, John wasn't optimistic about the outcome. He was already thinking of other avenues for gathering information.

Irritated and tense, John was about to leave when a woman opened the door. She appeared about to greet him, but instead flinched as if in pain.

Taking his hand in hers, she said in such a genuinely heartfelt tone, "I'm so sorry."

And everything changed.

John wasn't sure why it was so important for Missouri and his sons to meet, but he brought the boys back to the psychic. Partly he wanted the reassurance that the evil hadn't left a mark on them.

He carried Sam, and held onto Dean's hand as they walked up to Missouri's door. Both boys were quiet, and out in the daylight looked much too pale. Dean had become withdrawn, avoiding everyone except him and Sammy.

Kate and Mike had attempted to get closer to his children, and they did help to take care of some of their more basic needs. But Dean wasn't comfortable with them, and Sammy was restless when left in their care unless Dean stayed with him. Dean had become Sam's primary care-giver when John left the house. And even with his emotions all over the place, John knew that a four-year-old shouldn't have that type of responsibility. At the same time, he understood that Dean_ needed_ to take care of his brother.

Missouri opened her door as they came up the walkway.

Smiling softly, she leaned down a little to catch Dean's gaze. John felt the small hand in his grip a little tighter.

"Hello, Dean," Missouri greeted, "I'm so glad your daddy brought you for us to meet."

She reached out to gently take his free hand, giving him time to pull away if he didn't wish to be touched.

Her smile turned compassionate, "Oh, honey, it's okay to miss your mom. That's the way it's supposed to be. You don't have to forget her."

Startled, John glanced down in time to see Dean peeking up through his bangs, and realized that his son was looking to him for the truth.

"She's right, Dean," he said, crouching down. "I miss your mom too. I always will."

Dean shuddered slightly, and just like that John could see some of his boy's tension slough away. His green eyes looked a little less dull and more alert.

Turning back to Missouri, Dean said his first unprompted words since the night Mary died.

"This is Sammy," he said with the slightest hint of his old smile. "He's seven months old. He's really smart for a baby."

Missouri grinned, "I'm sure he is. Nice to meet you, Sammy," she added as she laid a hand on his dark, wavy hair.

Sam had been watching Dean, but now looked to Missouri. "Bah, bah."

Dean's smile grew. "That means he's thirsty."

"Well, let's do something about that," Missouri huffed as she easily pulled Dean into the house with John being tugged along by Dean.

Looking over her shoulder, Missouri met John's gaze. "Sam will be just fine once we get him some juice."

And John knew that she was talking about more than just the juice.

Fifteen minutes later found Sam, his thirst quenched, sitting on Missouri's lap playing with the large beaded necklace she was wearing while watching his brother flit around them.

"I told daddy that Sammy didn't like peas. They're yucky." Dean confided with a quick glance to John, who couldn't be happier to see the change in his son. Dean even included the appropriate facial expression for "yucky".

"Daddy said that peas were good for Sammy, and that he had to eat them. So Daddy kinda pushed the spoon in Sammy's mouth, and, and Sammy made _this_ face." Dean demonstrated a truly comical look that John had to admit was an accurate portrayal of Sam's face at the time.

"Then Sammy just stopped eating like he didn't know what to do, and, and then he spit." Here Dean flung his arms out and away from his body to show what happened.

Sam giggled. Dean looked to him and grinned. "Right, Sammy! Mushy peas went everywhere! Even …" Dean paused for effect, and lowered his voice slightly, "even all OVER daddy!"

Dean gave a little boy guffaw, and continued, "So daddy thought he should show Sammy how to eat the peas and, and he ate some, but," again Dean paused, "he SPIT them out too." Dean doubled over with laughter.

Missouri couldn't help but laugh along with Dean, and she looked to John.

John found he was smiling, and admitted, "They really were gross. We never fed Sam creamed peas again."

Dean smirked, and it was so much like the way Mary had looked in the aftermath of the "pea incident" that John felt his heart give a lurch.

But Dean was laughing, and Sam was giggling, and John thought he just might cry.

**December 20, 1983**

John picked up Missouri with no small amount of apprehension. She needed to go to the house to see if she could sense anything left behind.

It was a quiet drive, and he appreciated that she wasn't one of those people who felt small talk would help out a grieving man.

Once parked in front of the house, John couldn't move right away. He could only stare out the windshield and look at the ruin it was.

It wasn't until Missouri gently laid her hand over one of his clutching the steering wheel that he moved. He would never be able to tell her how much her support meant.

"Let's get this over with," he said gruffly as he got out of the car, and quickly went to the passenger side to assist her.

Seeming to know that John couldn't take the first step, Missouri led the way up the sidewalk and braced herself before entering the unlocked house.

John managed to step through the doorway, and found himself assaulted with memories of what life was like before. It seemed so long ago that this place had been their home.

Almost unconsciously, he followed Missouri through the place. It was all so wrong. Once they got to Sam's room, he lost it. It wasn't the room he was familiar with. He couldn't breath, and for the second time in his life, he found himself hyperventilating.

Looking at Missouri's face was enough to bring him out of himself, and see that she was reacting to something.

"John, there is such evil here," she stated, shaken. She was rubbing her arms like she was trying to wipe something off. "It has a horrible presence. If the echo feels like this, it has to be strong. Stronger than anything I've felt before. I can't explain how awful this feels. I've never come across anything like it."

John could see Missouri starting to tremble, and that was enough. Quickly, he pulled her away from his baby's room. "Let's go. We've got what we need."

It didn't take much prodding from John to get her to leave the house. As they were walking to the car, John took a look back at the house, and tried to remember what it felt like living a normal life. The ache in his chest grew, and he wanted that life back so badly.

Wanting wouldn't bring it back. Turning away, he left that _wanting_ behind.

**December 22, 1983**

It was Dean standing perfectly still by the living room door that alerted John that something was up. His quiet little boy was hardly breathing. Vaguely alarmed, John quietly moved towards him. He didn't know if Dean sensed or heard him, but his boy turned to him with eyes so large and fearful that John's heart clenched.

Then John heard voices. Kate and Mike's. Low hissing, whispers that sent him crouching by Dean and polite or not, once John heard the boys mentioned, he shoved any thought of social niceties away.

"Mike-"

"I know, I know. I'll do something." Mike's low rumble carried easily.

"When? This can't go on. I'm not sure at this point if he can be trusted with the boys." Kate bit out. "You've seen those books, heard that crazy talk."

Mike groaned. "Never thought I'd see John lose it this bad. Wouldn't believe it if I wasn't seeing it with my own eyes."

"Tomorrow you'll call Social Services?"

He barely heard Mike assuring his wife that he would make the call, get help for the boys, get help for John.

In that clarity of moment, John came to the shattering realization that Mary's death had been the first day of the end of everything. Shaken and dazed, he continued to listen to the Guenthers determine how to _fix_ his life.

It was a small hand gripping his shoulder that brought John back.

Dean was staring at him, face stubborn, insistent that his father get back to the here and now. John grasped his son's hand, feeling it steady him; quickly reminding him of what he had left to lose.

John gave a sharp nod to Dean and with his chin indicated the bedroom. Something must have shown in his expression, because Dean gave a tiny smile and quickly padded to the bedroom. John eased away carefully, no longer listening, no longer caring what the Guenthers were saying. They had said enough.

He'd never be able to write in the journal what their disloyalty had done to him. As it was, John filed them under opposition and dismissed them.

The Guenthers were doing what they thought was right. John was doing what he knew was right.

When John slipped into the bedroom, he found Dean pulling their duffels out of the closet. He had already gathered Sammy's toys on the bed.

"Time to go, isn't it, bud?" John took the offered bag. Dean just nodded and started stuffing Sam's toys in a bag. John cupped his hand over Dean's head feeling the soft silk of his hair. Dean looked up. "You did good."

Dean gave a quick grin, and John swept him up in his arms, bringing them face to face.

"I'd never let anyone take you and Sam away from me. You know that, right?"

"I know, daddy."

"Good. We'll get packed and leave before dawn." John gave him a quick hug, set him back down on the bed, and studied his oldest. Saw that this almost five-year-old already understood that people could take and be taken without ever having a say in it.

After they had packed, John lifted Sam out of the crib and laid him on the bed between Dean and himself. John was grateful for the approval he found in Dean's eyes. Maybe he wasn't the best father right now, but his boys knew he loved them.

Hopefully, that would be enough.

Just before dawn, John gathered up their bags and stowed them in the trunk by the growing collection of weapons. He placed a few toys and blankets in the back seat. He left the car doors open to avoid additional noise and to make it easier to situate his sons.

Both boys were still asleep. He gently scooped them up, not wanting to leave one alone while he brought the other to the car. That ever-present fear had grown throughout the night; telling him he couldn't take chances. Not now.

He had to leave.  
_  
Get away_.

Neither of his boys woke as he buckled them in. Wincing just a little at the creaking doors, John slid in behind the wheel and started the car.

He would pick up food once they hit the next town. He didn't want to take the chance of stopping in Lawrence.

"All right, girl. Let's get out of here," he muttered as he guided the car onto the street. John didn't look back; a sense of isolation hitting him hard as he left everything of what he had been behind.

No, not everything.

The road opened up before him.

The Impala was raring to go.

And the best of John and Mary slept in the back seat.


End file.
